“No. You can’t. I am going to meet Wyatt’s son. I’m already nervous enough.”
He barks again, louder.
“No,” I repeat.
Buddy immediately flips onto his back, covers his eyes with his paws, and lets out the most pitiful whine I’ve ever heard in my life. It’s like I’ve killed his best friend.
“Buddy …” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Wyatt has already renamed you and basically stolen you. If I take you to his house again, he might keep you!”
Buddy barks twice and jumps toward me like a furry missile. I catch him, and he burrows into me, whining again—long, dramatic, begging sounds that should win him an Oscar.
“Dang it, Buddy.” He whimpers again, softer. “Fine. I’ll take you. But if he keeps you and you don’t come home with me, I’ll never forgive you, you little traitor.” Buddy barks triumphantly and sprints back to the door, plopping down proudly among his toys like a child waiting for the school bus.
I shake my head and sigh. “God, I’m in over my head with you and Wyatt. The two of you together will make sure I never survive.”
Buddy gives another bark, smug as hell.
I turn back, heading to my closet. It’s time to get ready. Right now, I’m just praying I survive the night. Because I’m starting to worry I won’t.
Christmas with the Ex: I Gave Her A House, She Gave Me A Bullet
HORSE
Knife and I stand on the walkway outside the fancy-ass townhouse complex Dee conned out of me in the divorce. The whole place looks like it was built to impress people who care about stupid shit—white stone exterior, tall, black-trimmed windows, little manicured shrubs lining the front like soldiers guarding over-inflated property value. Even the sidewalk is pretentious, sealed so glossy it reflects the sky.
Dee’s unit sits on the right half of the duplex—two stories, stupid little balcony that she never uses but insists she “deserves,” and a wreath on the door that looks gaudy and expensive.
The part she actually lives in with Caleb and her lowlife brother Mark is the main floor and part of the upstairs—the nicer half. The unit beside her—that I foot the bill for—she rents out. Dee bragged once about how “empowering” it is to have passive income. I remember thinking the only passive thing about her was the way she let men rotate through her pussy like it was the damn front door to the local community market.
Knife knocks once, just loud enough to rattle the glass panel. Dee yanks the door open, eyes already narrowed, lips puckered like she sucked on a lemon. The longer I look at her, the more I wonder what I ever saw in this woman.
“You’re too damn early,” she snaps. “We agreed on a time for you to get Wyatt. That’s when you need to be here—and that isnotnow, asshole.”
I smile, but it’s a mean one. “I’m early because I didn’t get my son last weekend thanks to whatever bullshit you had going on. So, you owe me, Dee. I want my boy now.”
She scoffs. “You always were a bastard.”
“And you were always a bitch. I was just too blind to see it back then.”
Her nostrils flare, making her face—which is caked in makeup—look even uglier. At one time, Dee was a gorgeous woman. To some, she might still be. Yet all I can see when I look at her now is how ugly she is on the inside. It bubbles over and shines through her outward appearance for me.
“Fine. I’ll let you take him early, but don’t make a habit of it?—”
A man stomps into view behind her—beer belly hanging over his jeans, stained gray T-shirt that’s probably older than Caleb, thick neck, dirty ball cap shoved backward on his head. He smells of sweat and cheap hops even from here.
Mark.Well, this is just perfect.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” he demands, puffing up like a toad ready to croak.
It takes effort—actual physical restraint—to keep myself from grabbing him by that filthy shirt and choking the life out of him right on Dee’s welcome mat. I force a steady voice. “I’m here to pick up my son. That’s all. Not that it’s any business of yours, Mark. Although I see you’re still freeloading off Dee. Some things never change.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Mark snaps. “I’m living here to help her out. She’s nervous about being alone, since her fuck-up ex deserted her and left her to take care of her son without protection.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fall out. “I left because she was spreading her legs for half the damn state.”
“You asshole!” Dee screeches. “I didnot!”
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s see … first there was that prick at the service department where you took the Lincoln Navigator—that I bought you—for oil changes.”
